After the Fact
by AureliaAndMidnight
Summary: Aelin sacrificed herself successfully to save everyone she loved. This is the aftermath.
1. Prologue P1

**Lysandra**

Two years after Aelin Ashryver Galathynius sacrificed herself to reforge the Lock and seal the Wyrdkeys back into the Wyrdgate, all was well in Terrasen. The lords of the land were placated, at least for the moment, and the lands outside the kingdom were staying (mostly) within their own borders. The people were prospering as they rebuilt their broken lands and continue to look to the royals at Orynth for their well-being and safety. To Queen Aelin of the Wildfire, and her consort, Prince Rowan.

Gods, if only they knew.

Lysandra was eight months pregnant and itched to change her shape. The wild song in her blood only became stronger with every passing day. It urged her to shift, begged her to shift.

But she knew she couldn't. According to every text she had read, shifting while pregnant would only increase the chance of passing her powers on to her offspring, and that would be hard to explain.

As far as anyone knew, there was no shifter blood in either the Galathynius or Whitethorn lines. Shifter powers couldn't appear out of nowhere-they always had to be passed down.

And so, Lysandra remained as Aelin, even when she was alone in her chambers with no spying eyes pressed to the keyhole.

She was a painful reminder to Aelin's court-now _her_ court, presumably. She saw the sorrow in their eyes whenever she walked by. Hell, whenever she looked in a mirror she felt the same.

It was worse whenever she was near Rowan. And she had to be, often. He had stopped looking as if someone had punched him in the gut after the first few months, but the grief and devastation remained.

Yet Lysandra carried on. She had no choice, really.

Sometimes she resented promising her life to the Queen. She had known the consequences at the time, what it truly meant to take up Aelin's role, but she hadn't lived it.

Did she regret her choice? No. She had done her utmost for her friend, for her family, and for Terrasen. But it was still painful, and some days an agony, to don Aelin's body and parade around as queen.

She was only an actress in Aelin's grand production. Only an actress, never the real thing.

But she had a part to play, and by all the gods great and small, she swore that she would play it.

 **Aedion**

Some days he thought he hated her. Hated the both of them.

Aelin, for leaving them all to suffer through a lie. For not allowing them to publicly mourn her. For forcing them to live with a living, breathing Aelin that wasn't really Aelin.

Lysandra, for signing her life away. For being a reminder of what they all had lost. For helping to trap them all into one last elaborate scheme.

The anger roiled in Aedion's gut, a constant pain that gradually whittled away at his patience and his kindness. In ten years, would he be the same Aedion that had fallen to his knees in front of his cousin, begging her not to do it even as she clasped the Eye of Elena in her fist? The fear that he would not be that Aedion was what kept him awake at night, even as his Fae hearing picked up sounds from the other rooms.

Lysandra, hurling her guts up in the toilet. Elide, who sobbed some nights and lay quietly the others. Rowan, utterly silent.

There was no escape from the cloud of misery wreathed through their very souls. It was an ache that never went away, an ache made worse whenever Lysandra entered a room. How all of them managed to put up a happy, content front during the day was a mystery in itself.

Aedion lost himself in his troops, ever the general. He was the Wolf of the North, after all. If the rumors were to be believed, he practically bathed in blood.

He trained the new soldiers, trained himself. He organized constant patrols and rotated the guards about the city, seeing as no one had stepped up to fill the Captain of the Guard's position anyway. And he debated in council rooms about their allies (the foremost of which were Ansel of Briarcliff, Queen of the Wastes, Manon Blackbeak Crochan, the Crochan Queen, and Dorian Havilliard, King of Adarlan) and their enemies (which were mainly the Queen of Melisande and Queen Maeve of Doranelle).

Wendlyn, strangely, was waffling between allying itself with Terrasen and with Doranelle. Aedion supposed that drawing out their decision kept them safe for the longest, but sooner or later they would have to pick a side.

At least the ever-looming threat of Maeve was enough to distract him from Lysandra and the dead woman whose face she bore.

Most days, at least.

 **A/N: I'm going to go through Dorian's point of view next, then Manon's. After that...well, I'm going to take a dive into Rowan's brain and try to write him in a way that isn't totally cheesy. I'm putting him off for last before the real plot begins.**


	2. Prologue P2

**Dorian**

His castle was silent as ever. The only company he had, other than Chaol (who was off with Nesryn in all of his free time anyway), were the ghosts of his memories. They drifted through the halls, popping up practically everywhere. He would see Celaena— _Celaena_ , not Aelin—whenever he walked into a library. He saw his father when he beheld the throne, now his. And he saw Sorscha whenever a healer passed by.

He avoided ever visiting the healer's wing.

And that strange, sometimes-beautiful and sometimes-deadly _thing_ between him and Manon...he could ignore it. He did ignore it, perhaps too well. He rarely saw her anyway.

Dorian found solace in very few things nowadays. Books, mostly. Books about strange people in strange lands, about Fae impervious to iron but mortal in the face of certain powders and certain trees.

He read books about places where there were no Fae at all, only humans, where there was no magic or wonder at all.

He read about people who were happy, yet dissatisfied with their mundane lives, and about people for whom adventure was their bread and butter.

He read about people who died. Those were his favorites.

The best book he read was about a boy who had suddenly discovered he had magic and was dumped into a strange and fantastical world hidden within his own.

Most of the time, even with his books, Dorian felt lonely. He had nobody and no one anymore, it seemed. He refused to bother Chaol, for one. Chaol had been through too much for Dorian to encroach upon his happiness now.

He was just so damn _broken_ inside, by everyone and everything. The Dorian that had hopped from woman to woman like a butterfly from flowers was gone. He rarely laughed, rarely joked. He became his ice, in that stone castle. He laughed at a guard who had suggested he maybe go out, socialize. Here, there was nobody around who could stop him. Sorscha might've—but she was dead, killed by his psychopath of his father. Aelin definitely would've—but she was dead, too, making the sacrifice that he had been too chicken to offer to make instead. And Chaol?

Chaol was busy.

His mother was too obsessed with her court and repairing the kingdom to notice the hollowness in Dorian's eyes, his brother far too young and spoiled.

And so, Dorian drowned himself in his loneliness and his books and the duties that came with the crown.

Y'know, since there was no one to stop him.

 **Manon**

Being the last Crochan queen was hard.

About half of the Crochans didn't support her claim to the throne, but that didn't surprise Manon. What did surprise her was how many of the Crochans _did_ support her and how many of them forgave her for their dead kindred.

Manon and the rest of the Thirteen spent their days going from one end of Erilea to the other, convincing the red-cloaked witches she found on the way. They even found a hidden cache of Ironteeth who had defected from the clans—three Yellowlegs and five Bluebloods, none of them past a century. No Blackbeaks, unfortunately. Manon supposed that her grandmother's iron fist (no pun intended) kept her clan loyal.

Ansel of Briarcliff had kept her promise to offer a place in the Wastes for the witches. She didn't give away much of her territory, but Manon had a feeling that she could be... _persuaded_... to carve out more space. Manon just needed the numbers—not to fight, but for a show of force that hopefully would get Ansel to back down a little. As it was, Ansel jumped down Manon's throat at every slight transgression committed against the humans of the Wastes. She cared about her people, and deeply so. After learning about how she had clawed her way to power, Manon respected her even more.

The hardest bit of everything was handling everyone else. Dorian...by the Mother, she didn't want to deal with that. Aelin, really, was what made her pause sometimes. The most random memories of the golden-haired queen surfaced at the most inconvenient times. Aelin's sacrifice had changed them all, even Manon. It had made her quieter, more thoughtful, and less likely to whip her teeth and nails out at the littlest provocation.

It might have made her a better person, or whatever bullshit the sanctimonious fools in Rifthold and Orynth were spouting.

Whatever piece had shifted around inside of her when Aelin died to reforge the Lock, it had made her much more appealing to the Crochans. And Mother knew she would need their support when the Ironteeth had recovered from their losses and started killing them all again. She needed to unite the witches, as a Blackbeak and a Crochan.

Petra Blueblood was her first contact in the Ironteeth. She had established a tenuous bond of trust between the two. Petra was different from the rest of the witches around her. Different the way Manon had been different.

But Manon still had a lot of work to do, and if Abraxos would just _stop sniffing flowers goddammit you stupid useless beast_ , she just might get something done.

 **A/N Rowan's next.**


	3. Prologue P3

**owan**

Some days, it was just cold, empty silence. His mind was a barren wasteland where _she_ had once been, all cocky grins and fiendish plans that made his heart stop in his chest. Where her fire had burned and burned and burned there was only ice and wind and nothingness. It was a void that would never, ever be filled, right next to the hole where he had, once upon a time, held Lyria close.

Lyria may have left a hole when he died, but Aelin's death had ripped his heart to shreds and run the whole damn thing through a mess of knives and hammers just for the hell of it. He had loved her so, so much and she was gone. _Gone_ , all for a stupid mistake her rutting ancestor had made.

Some days, he felt like screaming and screaming and screaming until his throat was raw and he could barely speak. Some days, he did. A hard shell of air would encase his room to keep the others from running in, demanding answers he didn't have and trying to give him comfort where there was none to be had.

They all meant well, but Rowan knew better than to burden them with his problems. Not when they were all a little broken inside.

Lysandra, he imagined, hadn't really thought about what kind of an effect she'd have. The emotional gut punch she delivered every time she walked into a room had been strong enough, in the first few months, to stagger back against the wall.

She looked like her, grinned like her, laughed like her. But she wasn't his Fireheart.

Not even close.

At best, Lysandra was a piss-poor substitute. At worst, she was a gaudy, cheap fraud. A mockery of Aelin.

And they all knew it, no one better than her.

On all the other days, he felt like he was invincible. He fought the urge to laugh as the others treated him like pieces of broken china. He bit back a grin when they tried not the mention her name in front of him. He wanted to chuckle at the way their eyes would always dart between him and Lysandra as if they expected him to scream, break down in tears, or both.

He hadn't cried when she died. He hadn't cried when they defeated Erawan and sent the Valg King spiraling into the Wyrdgate. He hadn't cried when they had all returned to Orynth to crown Aelin— _Lysandra_ —Queen of Terrasen. And he hadn't cried since.

All of his tears had been locked up inside of him somewhere he couldn't reach, right where the words Aelin had whispered to him as she died were kept.

 _"I love you, Rowan Whitethorn._

 _"Don't you dare lose yourself._

 _"I'm sorry."_

It was those last two words that broke him, utterly and completely. His heart shattered as he looked down at the woman in his arms, smiling faintly, eyes closing, body growing limp.

 _"I'm sorry."_

 **A/N The real plot begins with the next chapter.**


	4. Chapter 1

**Aedion**

Lysandra's screaming echoed through the castle, accompanied with colorful swearing and shallow, pained breaths between. A soldier winced and muttered to Aedion, "Am I glad I'm not her consort. I would be deaf by now if I was, having to sit beside her and hold her hand through that ruckus."

Aedion didn't reply, knowing full well that Rowan wasn't beside Lysandra as she heaved and shrieked in pain. If Rowan were there, nobody would have been able to hear her but the Healer. His wind would have kept the noise contained.

Dammit, _he_ should be the one at Lysandra's side, holding her hand. It was his kid, after all.

Not that anyone outside of the inner circle knew that anyway.

Rowan, Aedion knew, was upstairs in his room. He really should have been in there with his "wife", to keep up appearances and all, but...Aedion titled his head up to gaze at the ceiling, hiding the the burning in his eyes.

It sounded like Aelin was the one screaming in pain.

And that was why Aedion hadn't dashed up the stairs and demanded the Fae warrior be there—but it wasn't the only reason.

It was the second-year anniversary of his cousin's death, and everyone was a little colder inside than usual. Of all the days for his kid to be born...

Rowan hadn't left his room all day, which wasn't unusual. Some days, the male wouldn't leave for anything or anyone. For him, it must've felt like Aelin's death was just yesterday—what with the whole immortal lifespan and all.

He and Lysandra, despite everything, were slowly healing. They picked up all the shards littering the ground and pieced them back together, hand in hand, and then gazed at the passable version of a life that they had built. It was fragile, sure—and he knew Lysandra still cried at night sometimes, and he had still kept himself neck-deep in work to distract him—but it was something.

Rowan had practically nothing.

Half his family had abandoned him, his lands and titles stripped by Maeve. Both of his wives dead, the second his mate. Gavriel and Lorcan all had their own issues to work through, and Fenrys was still suffering from the Blood Oath.

But Aedion kept his musings to himself. He didn't think Rowan wanted his pity.

Lysandra shrieked once more, then all was quiet. The sound of wailing echoed through the castle.

Despite himself, Aedion broke into a grin.

The grin slowly faded as footsteps approached, hurried and frantic. Aedion's hand went to his sword as a haggard looking Healer burst into the corridor.

"Sir," she gasped, "you're needed upstairs with the Queen."

Aedion exchanged a look with the guard and said, "Look after my post." With that, he started running up the stairs to Lysandra's room.

Each of his steps thumped with his pounding heart. The Healer hadn't looked happy. She had looked worried. Was something wrong with the babe?

He voiced his question out loud, and the Healer, Dormalise, shook her head. Aedion knew because she was one of the few people outside of the inner circle who knew about Lysandra. She was a necessity, specializing in treating Shifter-related issues that regular Healers wouldn't know what to make of.

"The baby is perfect," she said, trying to keep up with Aedion as he took two stairs at a time. "It's the Queen, sir."

Aedion ran faster.

He reached the top of the stairs and skidded around the corner, barging into Lysandra's room. There was blood...so much blood. Blood everywhere.

Lysandra lay, in her preferred form, on bed. A bundle was cradled in her arms as she wept softly.

"Lysandra," Aedion whispered, and walked over. She was so pale.

"Look at her," she said, her voice so soft he had to lean closer to hear her. Aedion looked at the baby, quiet in her mother's arms. Fine blonde hair crested her head. The eyes, blue with a ring of gold. His eyes, his hair. Unbidden, a tender smile crept onto his face.

"Her name is Evalin," Lysandra said. "If she's a Shifter, give her to Dormalise. She knows a few that can train her."

"You're talking like you won't be here to help her," Aedion said, face crumpling.

Lysandra smiled softly at him. "You know I won't. Shifters always have a hard time birthing children, just like the Fae have trouble conceiving." She lifted a hand to his face. "You'll be fine without me. Take care of her."

Aedion's eyes burned with unshed tears. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too."

Lysandra held on through the night. Dormalise tried her best to patch her up, but she wouldn't stop bleeding. Magic didn't work, medicine didn't work. She took her last breath in the morning, facing the rising sun.


	5. Chapter 2

**WARNING: _Tower of Dawn_ spoilers ahead from this chapter onward. **

**Evalin**

"Daddy hates me," Evalin pouted. She was sitting on the side of a bridge next to her two best friends, swinging her legs and watching the tadpoles in the water. Evangeline was sitting beside her, a chaperone to the two nine-year-olds that bracketed her petite form.

"Don't say that," Evangeline said, slinging a comforting arm around her shoulders. "It's not true. All dads have to love their kids." Josie nodded in agreement, her curly hair bouncing.

"My dad doesn't," Evalin said, sulky. "He never talks to me or smiles or anything. Today's my birthday and he barely said a word."

Josie shrugged. "He's probably sad 'cuz today's when your mom died. And he's really busy, too, with all the king stuff."

 _Mom_.

Evalin didn't know her mother. She knew what she had looked like from all the descriptions and paintings. She knew what her personality was like, from all the lords fondly remembering Aelin as a child and the inner circles telling their stories on her birthday. The golden hair, Ashryver eyes, the assasin's skills and Brannon's gift. The short temper, the quick wit, and the penchant for crazy schemes.

She knew who her mother was. She just didn't know her.

"Uncle Aedion likes me better than my father," she sulked.

"At least you have a father," Evangeline pointed out. She ran her fingers up and down one of the scars on her cheek out of habit. She had long stopped being bothered by them.

Evalin snorted. "Very true." Josie snickered and slung a companionable arm around Evangeline's shoulders.

The nine-year olds sat in companionable silence until Evalin started hearing a strange humming noise. "Evangeline, Josie, you hear that?" she asked, knocking on her head.

"Hear what?"

Evalin shrugged. "Never mind, then." But the humming only got worse from there, getting louder, louder. She clapped her hands over her ears, but it made its way through her veins and under her skin.

The humming reached a crescendo, and Evalin screamed. Josie was on her feet in moments, dragging her up by the hand. "Eva, what is it?" she asked worriedly.

"Josie...help...me…." Evalin got out through clenched teeth. Her hands stayed clenched over her ears. Tears lined her eyes. "It...hurts..."

"Stay with her," said Evangeline, turning away. "Your mom's the healer. I'll go get help."

Josie nodded, and started murmuring to her friend. "What hurts?" she asked quietly. "Ears," whimpered Evalin. "It's so loud…"

"What's loud?"

"The music."

"What kind of music?" Josie bit her lip and concentrated, drawing out white magical energy to probe her friend. But she found nothing to be wrong with her.

Except Evalin's magical energy had kicked into overdrive, flooding her blood vessels and threatening to take over her brain.

"Humming," she said, and squashed her eyes shut. "Make it stop!"

"I'll try," Josie replied determinedly. She forced her probing magic into the heart of her friend's magical core and _pushed_.

She needed to make a wall, a temporary one, that could stop the outpouring of magic. Slowly, painfully, Josie built one to block the source of Evalin's magic. It was a wild, pounding magic that eddied and flowed and twisted. It wanted to sink its fangs into her wall, anything to keep from being caged again.

 _Again?_ Josie wondered. So her magic had been suppressed before.

But the girl couldn't put the effort into pursuing that chain of thought, because the magical energy tried to shake her off again. She managed to put in the last brick before blacking out.


End file.
